


All the Way Back

by kathryne



Series: Afterthoughts [2]
Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Knifeplay, Makeup Sex, Missing Scene, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 01:04:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathryne/pseuds/kathryne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immediately post-Avengers, Natasha needs some questions answered, and she won't stop until she's positive she's gotten through all of Maria's defences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Way Back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Livesindreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Livesindreams/gifts).



> Although this story is not really part of a series per se, it's definitely in the same universe as my previous Maria/Natasha fic. It can be read alone, but the other work will provide some backstory.

The chairs in the hospital rooms aboard the Helicarrier are by no means comfortable; meant to discourage lingering visits, they're hard plastic with unsteady arms. Natasha has spent more than her share of nights in them, though, and they don't even come close to her list of unpleasant places she's slept. It's not the chair keeping her awake and restless, but the lingering worries about the battle and its outcomes.

Clint snores from the bed, the rhythm reassuring and hearty despite his cracked ribs. Any other time, they'd kick him out if he showed up with so minor an injury, sending him home without a hope of keeping him off the duty roster. Now, though, with Loki so recently banished from his brain, they drugged him; it's as much for his sake as theirs.

The drugs won't help. Natasha could have told them that.

She shifts in her hard seat, grimacing as the moulded plastic presses into a bone-deep bruise on her thigh. They tried to get her in a bed of her own, but she refused. There's nothing that won't heal, and there's no shortage of other bodies to fill the bed. Fury looked in earlier and found her there, but, when she raised her eyebrows slightly in challenge, merely nodded and left. She wasn't ready to talk to him anyway. She has too many unanswered questions.

The sounds of the hospital bay are never soothing; still, the repetitive nature of them, coupled with post-battle weariness, lulls Natasha into a half-doze. The shouting wakes her.

She's out of the chair and into the hallway, knife clasped in her fist, before she consciously recognizes the voices, and by then she can see them: Maria and Nurse Perkins nearly nose-to-nose and spitting angry words.

"There she is," Perkins says, pointing at Natasha. "Now shut up and get the hell out of my sickbay – and don't forget to come back and get your bandages changed," he adds no less imperiously.

"Romanov," Maria says, jerking her head for Natasha to follow her. Natasha hesitates, but Clint's snoring is still audible from behind her, and Maria has a wound across her cheekbone, red and angry. She tucks the knife back into the sheath under her sweatshirt and falls into step silently.

The corridors still smell like gunpowder, even as they move deeper into the residential area. How far had the fighting penetrated? Natasha doesn't know: couldn't tell in the midst of her own battles, deep in the belly of the ship, and hadn't time to find out afterwards. Maria's quarters are far from the outer hull, and though there are no physical signs, the scent of gunfire lingers.

The door hisses open at Maria's thumbprint. She locks the door behind herself, shutting them in, and Natasha realizes suddenly: it's not the corridors that smell of gunfire, but Maria.

Natasha rinsed off in Clint's hospital room once he began to snore; she's not clean, but the worst of the dirt is gone, and her sweats are at least not bloody. Maria, though...

Reaching up, Natasha runs her fingers across the wound on Maria's cheek. She presses, just a bit, until the reddened skin shows white under her hand. Maria makes a soft, choked noise, tension running out of her like wax off a candle.

"Natasha," she says, curling her fingers around Natasha's wrist and pulling away. Natasha moves quickly, though; her knife is in her other hand, the tip steady under Maria's chin before she can step back. "Natasha?" Maria says again, her tone no less even but somewhat less fond.

Natasha tips her head slightly, lips pursed. She studies Maria's face. Behind the dust and blood, Maria is pinched, skin creased in exhaustion. Her gaze is steady, though, and she leans towards Natasha despite the knife.

"You tried to nuke us," Natasha says conversationally. Maria sags further, stopping only at the touch of steel on her skin. Natasha urges her back upright, waiting.

"Not us," Maria says, teeth snapping shut on the ends of her words. "The Council."

Natasha nods – she wondered, but it never hurts to be sure – and lets the knife drop. It only falls a few inches before she stops it, hooking the tip into the tab of Maria's zipper. "You're sure?" she asks, twisting and pulling so that the zipper's teeth part with a muffled ripping sound. She doesn't _think_ Fury would sacrifice her and Clint, even to rid himself of Loki – and, she adds mentally, the Hulk – but she presses until the knife point pops through the uniform fabric and dents Maria's skin.

Maria breathes in shallowly. "Fury tried to stop them. I tried to stop them." She doesn't ask if Natasha trusts her. Natasha doesn't offer an opinion. Maria's fingers tighten around Natasha's wrist, still suspended between them. Aside from the knife, it's the only place where they touch. 

Natasha presses her lips together, evaluating. She tugs again, letting the knife bump over the metal path, exposing the edge of Maria's crumpled black tank top. The zipper ends mid-torso, just below the swell of Maria's breasts, but Natasha doesn't let that stop her. The uniform is torn and dirty anyways; she feels no regrets about continuing the path downward.

Maria hisses but doesn't move as Natasha draws the knife first through the jacket, then the tank top, moving slowly and deliberately. When the fabric sags, exposing a strop of Maria's soft skin nearly from neck to navel, Natasha turns, the knife slashing upward.

At that, Maria does move, dropping Natasha's wrist and jerking back. Natasha moves with her, slicing her bra neatly in two and leaving a fine red line on her skin.

"Jesus," Maria mutters. She's trembling, fine shivers running through her, but she steps closer, one hand settling on Natasha's waist. Natasha can feel its heat even through her shirt; she meets Maria's gaze for a moment, weighing its conviction.

She leans into Maria's touch briefly before looking away. Natasha presses the flat of the blade to Maria's collarbone; with the blunt edge, she urges the ripped fabric off one shoulder, then the other. Jacket, tank, and bra slither down Maria's arms, crumpling on the floor. The bruises rising on Maria's torso rival the ones Natasha knows she will have in the morning, and there's a thick pad of bandages taped over her ribs on the left side. Still, they've both had worse. Maria is whole, and she isn't pulling away.

Natasha doesn't quite trust herself enough to touch yet, not with her relief at finding Maria in one piece competing with the adrenaline of suspected betrayal. Her hand doesn't waver, but she turns the knife anyway, running the flat of the blade over the curve of Maria's breasts. She watches, cataloguing each of Maria's reactions: her straightened spine, her gasping breath, the way she leans into the knife without hesitation.

"You're all right," Natasha says, not quite a question.

"Yes," Maria says on an exhale. "And you."

Natasha ignores the implied question in favour of undoing Maria's belt. The holster sags; Maria grabs for it, but Natasha pushes the knife against her bare skin. Maria stills immediately, letting Natasha catch the gun and set it aside. Natasha half-smiles at Maria's willingness to go unarmed.

Switching hands, Natasha holds the cool side of the blade to Maria's stomach, just above her navel. She watches goosebumps spread across Maria's skin. Briefly, she wonders whether this is an unhealthy reaction to stress; Maria whimpers, and Natasha decides she doesn't care. With her free hand, she flicks open the catch on Maria's trousers and slips her fingers inside. Maria is hot and slick; she widens her stance eagerly, curling her arms over Natasha's sounders for balance. They'd be embracing were it not for the knife keeping them apart.

Natasha curls her fingers slowly, feeling Maria's hips sway forward. "Don't,' Natasha whispers, and Maria shakes her head, moving as if under water, languorous and fluid. Her hips continue to rock and she sighs softly, face calm. It's hard for Natasha to shake off the mood herself, but she does, pulling away from Maria with an effort.

"Lie down," she says, and then pauses, considering the number of orders she's heard barked out over the last day. "Will you lie down?" she tries again.

She's rewarded by a brilliant smile from Maria that completely erases her exhaustion. Maria kicks her boots off, leaving them slumped near her jacket, and lets herself drop onto the bed behind her. "Going to join me?" she asks, propping herself up on her elbows.

Natasha steps towards the bed almost involuntarily; the knife swings in her hand, reminding her. She tightens her grip, then stops. Have there been too many sharp edges today, too? She remembers the press of Maria's body against the knife and the heat of her cunt against Natasha's skin. No, she thinks, bringing the knifepoint to her lips and watching Maria's eyes track it.

Taking two steps closer, Natasha places the knife on Maria's stomach, edge beneath her breasts. Maria's breath comes a little faster; the edge scrapes her skin each time she inhales. Natasha peels off her sweatshirt, dropping her bra and arm sheath nearby, and wiggles out of her trousers as well. Stretching, she closes her eyes for a moment, luxuriating in the cool air of the room against her battered flesh. She runs her hands over her body, first checking for new bruises, then in the simple joy of touch. The battle is long over, but her blood hums in her veins.

"Would you like a hand with that?" Maria says, voice dry and excessively polite. Natasha's eyes fly open: Maria is still lying on the bed, knife in place even though she could move it at any time. She's waiting, willingly, and Natasha savours the feeling before going to her. 

"Not much you can do from there, she says, stopping at the edge of the bed and pressing her fingers to the knife's blade. It's warm from Maria's body, but she still shivers. "Nothing at all, really," she adds, bending to tug Maria's trousers off.

Maria's legs are trembling, from fatigue or excitement or both, and Natasha runs her hands along them, smoothing the tremors out of the long muscles. She remembers the hours she spent in this bed while Maria calmed her after missions; she's not sure whether the tables are turned or whether Maria is still giving Natasha just what she didn't know she needs. Her thumbs brush the thin skin at the top of Maria's thighs and she smiles, ignoring the pain of her split lip. Really, it doesn't matter.

She bends and draws the flat of her tongue over Maria's cunt, licking into her with a slow, steady pressure. She can feel Maria fighting the urge to roll her hips into Natasha's mouth, attention split between pleasure and the still-present threat of the knife. The longer she has to fight to concentrate on both, Natasha knows, the better it will be when she finally lets go. Just Natasha's mouth won't get her there, but Natasha's enjoying herself, the taste and the sound of Maria's soft whimpers driving her previous concerns entirely out of her head. She slides a hand between her own thighs and rocks against it.

Maria mutters something Natasha doesn't hear, but she keeps her hands fisted in the sheets. She's giving in, finally, after nearly a day on her feet, and Natasha's going to let go with her. She pulls her hand away from herself and runs it up Maria's leg, tracing her smooth skin. She curls her tongue inside Maria and grabs the knife at the same time, taking it unerringly by the blade and drawing it towards her.

Maria gasps when Natasha pulls back, replacing her mouth with a thumb on Maria's clit. Natasha moves carefully, watching Maria's eyes before dragging the knife between her legs. There's no fear in her.

Natasha grasps the knife, edge up and slides the handle inside Maria.

Maria tosses her head back, panting. Her hips twitch, movements tiny but wild as Natasha twists the knife, pushing the handle up and drawing it out, watching Maria avidly. It only takes a few thrusts before Maria's control finally melts: she comes hard, muscles clenching violently under Natasha's fingers as she yearns towards and pulls away from the knife simultaneously. The line of her torso makes Natasha desperate to sink her teeth into the soft skin, but there are bruises enough already there.

When Maria calms, Natasha pulls the knife away, placing it on the bedside table with care. She clambers gracelessly onto the bed and kisses Maria hard, breathless with desire and gratitude. Their hands meet and tangle between Natasha's legs and she rides their rough fingers to a quick, intense climax, shouting as she shakes in Maria's arms.

They lie pressed together afterwards. Natasha's head rests in the curve of Maria's shoulder and she breathes in the scents of sweat, sex, and still, faintly, gunpowder.

"You gonna do that every time you think we were trying to kill you?" Maria says into Natasha's hair.

Natasha shrugs, stretching against Maria's body.

Maria huffs a quiet laugh. "Good to know," she says, sounding genuinely intrigued by the future possibilities.

Obscurely reassured, Natasha lets herself fall asleep, Maria's pulse in her ear. For the first time in months, she sleeps without a weapon.


End file.
